


Old Habits Die Hard

by written_in_blood



Series: 004, aka, the Good Doctor [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, Crossover, James hates medical, John has a license to kill, John was a 00, License to kill, M/M, The Golden Trio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-16 09:58:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13633971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/written_in_blood/pseuds/written_in_blood
Summary: John looked down at the form slumped against his door frame with an old smirk, remembering the hundreds of nights he had this same view, of James' dirtied blond hair clumped to his forehead by both his and his target's blood. "Pass by medical again, Jamie?" The question was fond and too familiar on his lips as he spoke.Then he remembered Mycroft behind him.





	Old Habits Die Hard

"Tell me, Doctor," the man began, leaning forward just slightly with such minute movement that John almost thought he imagined it. But before the British Government -aka, Mycroft Holmes- could continue, there was a hesitant knock at the door.

 

Miss Hudson was out for the week, as she was visiting her niece in the country for a time to figure out the girl's living situation and Sherlock had evacuated the flat the second he realized Mycroft had dropped by for a discussion of a potential case - _goodness, Sherlock, the leg work-_ so that left only John and the British Government in the flat.

 

"Do you mind if I check that?" John questioned and at Mycroft's dismissive hand gesture towards the door, John stood and made his way to the door.

 

Opening the door slightly, John looked down at the form slumped against his door frame with an old smirk, remembering the hundreds of nights he had this same view, of James' dirtied blond hair clumped to his forehead by both his and his target's blood. "Pass by medical again, Jamie?" The question was fond and too familiar on his lips as he spoke.

 

James just gave a groan, blood stained hands clenching on the door frame until his knuckles went white. "Medical, really, John? When have I been known followed proper protocol?" The agent was holding his bloodied side with his other hand and John's blue eyes cut down to the gun shot wound.

 

45mm shot from point blank, messy end result of a hand to hand show off with a particular suspicious target. John could the residue clinging to James' button down, coating his light green tie -an ugly thing really, but John would never dare tell the Great James Bond that he dressed like he was colourblind- in a thin layer of his blood.

 

"Couch. Now," the doctor commanded, moving quick to slide his emergency wound kit from the spot under the kitchen sink and practically pushing the 00 onto Sherlock's moping couch with a forceful hand.

 

James did as he was told, stumbling to the couch before falling upon it with all his weight. His suit was askew and he was not going to win any beauty prizes but at least he was alive. "Hey, Johnny, your limp is gone," he commented almost absentmindedly as he watched the smaller man flitter around him to shed him of his obscuring upper suit.

 

"Yep. Ran it out from chasing phantoms all day."

 

James had remembered the day John was shot, a horrid Afghanistan day like no other, burning sun pairing with extreme thirst. It was all too fast, too wrong, too chaotic and neither 007, 006 nor 004 were prepared for the onslaught they were faced with when they were cutting their way through enemy combatants.

 

The gun shot that tore through his brother in arm's shoulder would haunt him for years to come, reminding him of their failure, of James' failure to keep his younger partner safe. Alec had cracked a joke as John bled out, cradling the blond to his chest to keep him focused. It took everything James had not to break there, listening to Alec's voice waver as he silently begged John to laugh if only it meant the kid was still alive.

 

John was stuck in a medical induced coma for a month afterwards and when he awoke, invalided home, as stupid as the word was. Home for John was his brothers, was his pistol sitting his palm securely, was the danger thumping through his veins and protesting his body's extents. Home was his title and the smile on Quartermaster's face when he  _finally_ returned something in the condition it was sent off in.

 

The soldier was stripped of his double-oh status when the limp didn't go away, when the snap of one of the Q-branch's minion's stapler had him ducking for cover. He kept his license, though, fought like hell for it more like and M had finally relented when she saw the condition he was left in: scared like hell for his future. John was a force to reckoned with, a mountain to never bend but he got on a knee for M and she knew it.

 

It had come in handy in a matter or two since he lost the '00', becoming simple old John Watson again. The Cabby, the thief off Broaden that tried to take Sherlock's life, that Chinese gang and its eventual complete demise. M had her hands full cleaning up each mess made by her ex-agent but never once revoked the man's license to make him vulnerable to his world once again.

 

He was still doing his job saving the world, if only from the street instead of the field or some informant's bed. He was always an agent to those who remembered, always Good Doctor, Captain John Hamish Watson, 004.

 

Then he remembered Mycroft behind him, teacup still in steady hands and a perfectly guarded expression.

 

"James, I am going to need you to keep still. Goodness, you buffoon." It didn't take long for the Doctor to clean the wound up and dress it, even with James' squirming.

 

"Watson," Mycroft spoke and it sounded vaguely like a warning, the very edge of Sherlock's Ah-Ha voice. His secret was buried so deep since his forced retirement but it never really clicked that his flatmate's older brother was in the dark for something for once in his life.

 

John ignored him in favor of meeting James' raised eyebrow with a glare. "Not a word, Bond. He is married and not to me."

 

James snorted. "Yeah,  _Watson._ Like that's stopped Three Continents before."

 

John made a visible face, imagining for a second holding Lestrade's husband and he was only met with a wave of disgust. "Ew, Bond." Then he turned to the man in question with an almost apologetic look. "No offense, Mycroft, but you can stay safe with Greg."

 

"No offense taken, Captain."

 

The title hit something in John and he felt the familiar sands burying his heels, bullet ricocheting all around him as he screamed for back up.  _Dear, god! please, let me live!_

 

"John!" James' voice snapped him back like a rubber band, heavy and painful. "Dear Lord, Johnny. You shut off there."

 

John stumbled for a moment, realizing he had been walking while caught in the vision of Afghanistan.

 

 _Double-oh syndrome,_ Michael, 0014, had called it when a soldier slipped under the control of muscle memory to drown in the kill. John knew himself to be a frequent victim on his later missions, just becoming the tool he was and waking up perched in medical, a nurse glaring at his newest wound.

 

"It seems, Doctor Watson, that this a delicate situation you have under control so I will take my leave and we will discuss this later. Thank you kindly for the tea." Mycroft stood slowly, grabbing his discarded umbrella in favor of standing empty handed before making his way out of the flat. James watched him go silently.

 

Their eyes met briefly as John went to return the kit. "You should try yoga, John. You look so tense."

 

John laughed, feeling that ever-present tension melt off his back. "Tried it. My flatmate got the instructor arrested for embezzlement." He didn't mention how he had been dating the instructor for a week beforehand and brought her over for some much needed and very bendable stress relief when Sherlock burst in, listed everything he had seen on her like a goddamn book and then threw himself on the couch to slip into his mind palace.

 

John never saw Holly again after she freaked, running out of the flat as John tried to console her but found out later by Greg that the woman had been found out for her monetary crimes by anonymous tip.

 

James' laugh sounded so lovely on John's ears and he felt himself get hit with a wave of longing. James, Alec and Michael had become his family since Harry fell off the wagon again and his parents died. Leaving MI6 meant leaving his family. After all, orphans made the best agents because they became undyingly loyal to the family they built in the ranks.

 

"This flatmate. Male or female?" James asked and John groaned. Of course the agent picked up his fond tone at the mention of Sherlock. He wouldn't be in MI6 if he was anything but observant.

 

"Does it matter?" John said offhandedly, not wanting to admit that page in his life. No one but his brothers knew that "not gay" was really a half truth and they never mentioned it out loud. Bi, and still deep in the closet was John Watson, even as he crushed on his flatmate. If John had a slight increase in male honeypot missions after Michael found out that he swung for both teams, though, he would quite admit.

 

The wounded man not still bleeding out on Sherlock's sulking couch made a noncommittal sound. "And that man you were just having tea with?"

 

John thought about how to approach the question. They had heard of the Ice Man in MI6, an all-knowing being that frightened Tanner and made the Q-branch's minions faint at the mention. The man signed M's paycheck and no doubt did it with a smirk. "Do remember Alec's stories of the Omniscient  _Baba Yaga_ that would drop by M's office to give her the latest orders from higher up?"

 

James nodded then his eyes went wide. "Shite, John! You have the goddamn Ice Man over for tea?!" John didn't respond, just settling in to his armchair. "John, ya wonderful bastard! Why didn't you tell me? M will be so livid, he has been saying that Ice Man gave him a poor performance report last month."

 

John froze, hands gripping his armrests. _"He?"_

 

James seemed to realize his mistake, a sober look crossing his face. "John," he started but didn't finish.

 

"Molly would never step down. She was the best M we had."

 

James looked pained and John knew exactly what the agent would say next. "She didn't step down. Closed casket."

 

Dread settled in his gut, his breath leaving in all one second.  _Closed casket,_ code for a brutal death. Molly was a wonderful woman and a better M, the closest John had to a real mother even when she was pissed at him for some stupid or rash decision on the field. To know she passed away and no one told him until the time passed where another could take her chair, pissed him off to no end. Then rage settled over the hurt.

 

"Quartermaster promised me that he would tell me whenever someone perished."

 

James looked pained again. "Desmond is no longer with us as well. Replaced by this kid with no experience and a mouth but he gets the job done and does it well. He even has the respect of the minions, it's almost impressive how good this kid is with the branch."

 

They shared a moment of silent in respect of John's revelations. Desmond Llewellyn was unreplaceable as voices in your ear go and Molly was the glue that kept the double-ohs together and sane, kept Michael from blowing up small cities and Alec from burning down the building.

 

"John?" It sounded vaguely like a question and the man tilted his head towards James. "You are not okay," he stated matter-of-factorly.

 

John bent forward to pick up his discarded cup of tea and raised it to his friend. "Never let them see you bleed," he quoted Llewellyn.

 

James smiled sadly, raising his hand in a salute. "And always have an escape plan."

 

~

 

"John." John lifted his gaze to the cabinets before him, feeling Sherlock make his way into the flat. "You had a visitor. Wounded, close distant shot to the side judging by the blood pattern on  _my couch_." Sherlock's footsteps passed his armchair and stopped before the bloody couch but John still didn't turn around.

 

"Old friend, judging by how you are holding your shoulders: relaxed. But when I entered, you reached for your pistol so something about this man triggered the soldier's paranoia." John noticed his raised hand and quickly schooled himself, dropping the hand to his side.

 

"Old military friend, then. He brought bad news and you treated him quickly, effectively, not bothering to acknowledge Mycroft. Mycroft hadn't left before your visitor arrived, did he? His cup of tea is unfinished but yours in empty, as if you continued to drink as you payed vigil. Something about this man's -yes, man- injury didn't surprise you so you were used to tending to his wounds. Gets into fights often, doesn't he? You are stiff but not on alert, relaxed but not standing down. You are waiting for something but what is it?"

 

John just wanted Sherlock to finish, to declare his findings as he always did and John would move on. Or try to, at least. No one could move on from a force of nature like Sherlock and John knew himself to be too weak to even try erasing the time he spent running around the city getting shot at. So he just waited for Sherlock to find that one twitch that gave away his past and kick John out for lying about his past.

 

Another family lost, then.

 

"He is still here. You have made three cups of tea, one in the Brazil cup you hate, and we are not expecting another guest. Loss of motor function, then. You moved your patient after you treated him but why? You are a good doctor, even a great doctor, and you know not to ever move a wounded man when he had fresh stitches. So why did you do it? Conclusion: you didn't want me to see him. Something about him would tell me a fact I am not supposed to know."

 

And that was it. Nothing else followed and John felt the confusion hit him. Sherlock would never just stop, not when he had a new mystery to play out and amaze.

 

"Brilliant, as ever, Sherlock." He knew he sounded small but he didn't care. He turned slowly, carrying the two cups meant for himself and his flatmate over to where the man had taken a seat in his armchair. "And?" He prompted, waiting for the finishing blow.

 

But Sherlock just looked at him, taking the offered cuppa with a ghost of a smile. "If you don't want me to know than I will not dig. You can have my bed tonight as I am not going use it and I am going off the assumption you have loaned yours to a certain guest."

 

And just like that, he was just John again.


End file.
